The Watchman's Tale
by Hallowed Aegis
Summary: Every day, they journey closer to Erebor, the lost kingdom of the dwarves. And every night, Old Balin tells a tale from Thorin's youth; a young dwarf in search of a kinsman, a wounded warrior, and the woman who would not live to see him crowned King Under the Mountain. A story within a story, taking place somewhere between book- and movie-verse. Rated M as a precaution.
1. A Short Rest

**I do not own anything created by Tolkien; I just have an undying love for them :)**

**Chapter One: A Short Rest**

The night was half gone when the watchman was summoned.

"Balin! Tell us a tale," called a voice from the fire.

"Aye, your watch is over. Come warm yerself, greybeard," said another. Sighing, the old lookout left his post, nodding to Bifur as he exchanged places with the diligent, albeit mute, dwarf.

"No lads, not tonight," he said quellingly, easing onto the ground. He was nimble enough for a dwarf of his years, but age had begun to creep up on him. He massaged his hands in the firelight, hoping to ease the aches and pangs that came with the cool night air.

"Oh come on, greybeard!" moaned Kili. "You've got the most stories of any dwarf here. Come now, don't be stingy." Balin hid a smile; he was secretly pleased by this new role in the company. The lookout rather enjoyed stories, and he was an excellent storyteller; it was nice to know others appreciated the talent.

Flapping his hand at the young dwarf, he sighed heavily. "Alright, alright young Master Kili, stop your grousing. What'll it be?"

Instantly ideas were flying through the air, as is often the case with dwarves and anything that could possibly resemble an opinion.

"Something about Uncle," Kili said quickly, casting a glance over his shoulder to ensure his uncle hadn't heard.

"Adventure!" said Gloin.

"Legend!" shouted Fili

"Romance," sighed Ori

"Friendship!" called Bofur

"I wonder…" a small voice started, and then stopped. The dwarves turned to see Bilbo Baggins, their supposed burglar, standing at the edge of their fire. Balin nodded encouragingly, and Bilbo sat down, eyes alight. "I wonder, could we hear something _true_?"

The dwarves were silent for a moment, and then let out a chorus of approval. Balin unconsciously shifted his gaze to the leader of their company, Thorin Oakenshield. The dwarf sat a few feet away, seemingly oblivious to the carousing about the fire. But Balin, sharp as ever, caught the hand signal, nothing more than a quick flick. A moment later he was gone, clearly not wanting to be present for the telling of this story.

_Do as you will,_ it had meant. Cutting his eyes at his brother, Balin nodded. Dwalin shushed the crowd, by now all eager to hear the tale.

"Then I shall tell you something that is all of them together," he said, leaning forward. Unconsciously, his companions mimicked his pose. "It is a long account, though. We may not finish it tonight."

"That's alright," grinned Fili. "It's a long way to Erebor. We could do with some entertainment along the way." The others chuckled, and then hushed themselves under Dwalin's dark glare.

"Very well," murmured Balin. "Where to begin?" he mused, staring into the fire. Dwalin shifted, catching the attention of the audience.

"Begin with the girl," he growled. "That's how it all started, isn't it? The girl, and then the war."

Balin nodded sadly. "Too true, brother. Too true," he said, pausing to gather breath. Kili, ever impatient, jumped in, dark eyes alight with mischief.

"So there's a girl involved?" he asked eagerly, grinning.

"Was is a secret romance?" Ori asked a moment later, sighing wistfully.

"Was it love at first sight? Was he struck by the beauty of her hand and the glory of her train?" Kili whispered, chuckling. Fili nudged his brother hard in the ribs while the others looked about for Thorin. But he was nowhere to be seen. The dwarves around the fire began to mutter and grumble, an omen of things to come. Balin quickly raised his hands, and they quieted, impatient but with their interest piqued.

"Hardly," Balin replied cheerfully as he began to fill his pipe. "At first sight he tried to slit her throat while she had a knife at his belly. But I daresay they interested each other. She was a rare sight, to be sure. Beautiful in the way that the sea and sky and mountains are; maybe not love at first sight… but when he first saw her, truly saw _her_… yes. There could be no return…" his voice trailed off as he stared into the night, eyes sad as he made out a familiar shadow in the darkness. No one spoke.

After a few long moments, Balin sighed, seemingly coming back to himself. "And now I seem to have gone awry already. The war or the girl…"

Again, Dwalin's voice cut carried over the snapping embers. "Then perhaps start with yourself, brother. You were the first to see it, and the first to meet her." All eyes turned to Balin; none dared utter a sound

"Yes. Yes, that will do very well," he murmured. After a long draw on his pipe, Balin spoke, eyes fixed on the firelight. His voice seemed to swell and crack with the flames before spiraling up and out into the darkness.

"It is a good tale, if sad. She couldn't have been better matched if they had been hewn from the same stone. And he loved her, with the fierce, unyielding love of our kind. It was seven years after the War of Orcs and Dwarves. Our tale begins, as good tales ought, with a kindness done to a traveler, long ago and far away…"


	2. Shadows Fall

**I do not own any of Tolkien's creations.**

**Chapter Two: Shadows Fall**

Breathing heavily, the dwarf stumbled through the brush, hand clamped over his left arm. He could feel the gash bleeding sluggishly, blood warm and sticky as it bubbled through his fingers. A bandage, a makeshift attempt to staunch the flow, was now a fever dream; it was just a sodden rag, better for attracting flies than any medical purpose. At least his back had gone numb; no doubt he'd pay for it later, but at the moment he couldn't be troubled. He had greater worries, far more pressing and immediate.

Two long, weary days had left his nerves strained to the breaking point. Every rustle was an enemy, every snap a careless scout. The dwarf had not survived wars and countless skirmishes by ignoring such signs; at each, he had hidden, waiting for the normal sounds of the forest to return. And each delay cost him dearly; how many minutes, how many hours, had he wasted jumping at shadows? And still he had not found food beyond the rare berry or acorn. His water was all but spent. Two days of such vigilance had left him physically and mentally drained. He knew that come sun down, without food or water, he would go no farther. And when the night closed in, he would be helpless.

The shadows were already growing long, an ill omen to the dwarf. He was heading south, doggedly following the hunting trails and woodland paths that formed the veins of Dunland. He had hoped to find a village somewhere in the hills. But thus far, fate had seen fit to deny him. And so he staggered on, the lone survivor of a raid two days hard trek north. He hadn't left any enemies alive to track him, but that was before the march south, before leaning a faint but steady blood trail ending with him. Any warg or orc within ten miles was sure to come calling. And so he looked about desperately, seeking any sign of civilization or respite.

About to give up hope, he heard it; the faintest gurgle of water. He stood, rooted, hardly daring to breath. Treading cautiously, the sound began to grow, until it was a muted but very distinct roar. With the last of his strength, he took off at a shambling run. Gasping, he burst from the thicket, nearly blinding himself with the setting sun. Blinking furiously, the dwarf quickly took stock. He stood in a small clearing. There, a glorious waterfall waited, crashing down from a sheer rock face into a turbulent river.

Balin staggered the last few steps before collapsing at the river's edge. He drank greedily, heedless of the fact that he was exposed. He had found water, and with it, hope. It was with that last thought that his eyes dimmed, exhaustion taking over. He had found water; the rest was up to fate.

* * *

There was a pleasant coolness across his face, moving slowly, easily, gently behind his neck to rest on his forehead. Balin was dimly aware that he was on something soft; heard the soft crackle of embers as if from great distance, though he could feel heat washing up his legs and into his body. There was a strange growl, as if something were rushing above and about and beyond him all at once. He could taste metal on his tongue, and breathed the tang in the air eagerly. Metal, something he knew! Copper, or he wasn't a dwarf. Then, ever so briefly, there was a wisp of light scent, cool and fresh; a strange combination playing against the heat and the ash and the metal. Surely he was dreaming. Curious about this dream world, the dwarf sought to move. However, his arm would not bend, and he suddenly became aware of a heavy weight upon chest. Feebly, he struggled, panic burning away the exhaustion in leaden limbs. With a mighty effort, Balin opened his eyes.

Everything seemed to swim into focus at once, a strange kaleidoscope of shadow and light that was ever changing. It was a cave, he realized after a moment. A large fire pit burned merrily in the center, a cauldron burbling softly above it. Roughly woven tapestries hung along the walls, billowing slightly; tunnels, he wondered? Gingerly, Balin fought to move his arm; it was bound tight, fresh bandaged and in a splint, explaining his previous lack of mobility. He was on a ledge padded with old quilts and furs, belongings within hands reach. Balin was reaching forward when he froze, feeling eyes upon him. Deep in the darkness, something moved. What he had originally taken to be a shadow began to take shape; a hound of enormous size, teeth as long as his fingers bared in a silent snarl.

Spurred into action, Balin lunged for his blade, only to pull up short as pain seared through his side.

"Grandfather, calm yourself!" a voice said, husky and warm. Balin froze and stared into the palest green eyes he had ever seen.

* * *

"I cannot find him," the tall dwarf said, beard flaring wildly about his grim face. "He's not among the dead, and I cannot find his sword," he continued, anxious. Unconsciously he slapped his gauntlets, eyes combing the freshly dug mounds for the umpteenth time, still searching.

His companion said nothing. Handsome for his kind, his thick black hair and fine-looking beard were normally well-kept, with gold beads typically hanging from braids as both decoration and declaration of status. At the moment however, the dwarf in question was very dirty, very tired, and very, very worried. Thorin Oakenshield surveyed the damage, his face grim. Piercing blue eyes missed nothing; they noted the shattered axle, the reddened earth, the deep scouring across rock and tree. All these signs told him what had happened two days ago. It was a bitter knowing. The small wagon train, the last of the refugees of Erebor, lay in ruins about him, belongings scattered haphazardly by wind and by battle. The wagon itself was little more than kindling now. His people had fought bravely; when he and Dwalin had come upon the scene, they had found their erstwhile enemies pinned to the ground.

He closed his eyes for a long moment, holding back a sigh; these had been the last of his folk in Dunland, eager to move at last to Ered Luin. Balin had been sent to oversee the dissolution of the camp and to guide them back with the start of spring. It was supposed to be a happy meeting. Instead, they had been greeted with the afternoon's hard labor of burying their dead and burning their enemies.

At last Thorin nodded, seemingly to himself. "We'll spiral out. If the battle was over, he may have tried to seek shelter. We'll find his trail," he croaked, the ash of the dead heavy on his tongue.

Gradually they worked their way out, painstakingly widening the net. At last, Dwalin called out. "Here! Thorin! A trail, quickly, over-" As suddenly as it began, the voice cut off. Thorin hurried over to see what was the matter.

"Blood," Dwalin said shortly. Thorin could see sweat on his companion's bald crown, adding a strange sheen to the tattoos he bore. "The trail heads south," Dwalin continued after a moment, voice tight.

Thorin swept his gaze along the trail, thinking fast. It was narrow and overgrown, but not impassable. The moon would be full, and the night promised to be soft; they could make good time if they were cautious. Nodding again, he walked back to the killing ground, calling to Dwalin as he went.

"Gather the ponies. We'll take what we can and cache the rest." He began to do just that, Dwalin following a beat behind him. At last they were ready, kitted up for deep woods work. Clucking softly to his mount, he cut his eyes at his companion.

"Keep your wits about you," he murmured, voice hardly carrying as the dark closed around.

Dwalin nodded, loosening his knife in its sheathe. "And if there's trouble?" he asked. He didn't sound worried by the prospect, Thorin noted; quite the opposite.

Not for nothing was Thorin Oakenshield considered one of his generation's fiercest warriors. Eyes hard, he turned in the saddle to face his companion.

"Then we deal with it," he said coldly. Dwalin nodded, and moment later silence reigned as the forest swallowed them up into green and shadow.

* * *

Still figuring out the voice for this, but I wanted to post anyway :) Hope it works! ~H. Aegis


	3. Leather & Metal

**I do not own any Tolkien creations... sadly.**

**Chapter Three: Leather & Metal**

Strong hands caught him before he slipped over, easing him into a more comfortable position.

"Easy greybeard," the woman said softly.

"What's happened? Where am I?" Balin asked in a reedy voice. He hated how frail, how _weak_ the sound was. Distress turned to a gasp, which became a cough that racked his frame for several long breathless moments before a warm cup was raised to his lips. Eagerly, he drank.

"There now. You were wounded in battle, near as I can tell," the voice said calmly. "Easy now, let's have a little more light." There was a spark, and as a lamp flared to life Balin saw her.

She was a strange little woman in a low-slung greasy cap and a work-stained dress. Clearly small and lithe despite the ill-fitting clothes, she was currently bent over the lamp. Awkwardly she stood up, dusting her hands off. "There, that makes things much more friendly," she said, sounding pleased. "Can you sit up?" Before he could answer, she began wiping the sweat from his body, plumping quilts and furs around him.

"Where am I?" he asked again, as bewildered by the surroundings as by woman's brisk treatment. Her hands never faltered when she answered, working steadily to remove the grime and blood and salt from his grueling march south.

"Groth Lanthir, I call it. It's just upstream from the village of Drenglyn of the Halethaine province in Dunland," she said soothingly, wringing out the rag and beginning again.

"I was making for Trun Dreng, or Galtrev," Balin said drowsily. The water was scented with something sweet and vaguely floral; lavender, he thought. Whatever it was, it brought to mind peace and rest.

"Well, you didn't miss it by much," the woman said thoughtfully. "It's on other side of mountains. We're just a settlement, really. If you'd kept on, you'd have hit Dunbog in another day or so," she said, propping him up amongst the furs and going over to the cauldron to ladle broth into a rough-hewn bowl.

"Here master dwarf, get that in your belly. So what brings you to our fair hamlet with an arrow in your back and a cut up arm," she asked lightly. Balin didn't answer; he had begun to down the food quickly, ravenous.

"Not so fast, greybeard," she laughed, taking it away. "Slowly now. Eat too fast and you'll make yourself sick. Best take it slow and keep the good _inside_ your belly!"

Balin nodded, sipping more slowly. It was a simple broth, good and hot. After two days of little to eat, it didn't take much to appease his stomach. She took the bowl away, and he began to speak.

"Settlement… moving… there was a raid. Two days trek," Balin coughed, throat dry.

"Easy does it now, grandfather. It was two days trek with little rest and not much else besides, I'll wager. Well that clears things up," she murmured to herself. She stared at him for a long moment, eyes distant. A large crack from the popping embers seemed to bring her back to the present.

"Well, there's nothing else for it. I'll just have to heal you up and hope you don't die in the process," she said candidly.

Balin blinked, his mind thoroughly muddled. He shook his head, feeling suddenly dizzy. A face swam into view a moment later, brows wrinkled and eyes kind. Her small pert mouth smiled, skin opal-like in the flickering lamplight. Balin thought it very strange that she wore the hat so low; it was extraordinarily hot in the cave. Or perhaps that was just him…

"Lay down your head and sleep, grandfather dwarf. I must away. The hound will stay with you. He's stubborn, but he won't let any trouble you. I'll be back after dawn."

Balin made to protest, but the hands that laid him down were gentle, and the fire was soothing. Exhaustion stole across his limbs. The woman was drawing away when he caught her arm.

"Your name?" he whispered. He couldn't see her, but he heard the smile in her voice.

"Thilia. And yours?" the woman – Thilia, he corrected himself – whispered.

"I am Balin," he murmured. A small callused palm ran over his hand, giving it a quick squeeze.

"Rest well, Master Balin." The voice and hand withdrew, and at last the dwarf fell into an easy sleep.

* * *

The trip south was not pleasant for Thorin and Dwalin. They had spent a night and the better part of a day in the saddle, only dismounting to relieve themselves or walk the ponies. While such an exercise had done much to eat into the distance, most of a day spent in the saddle had done little to sweeten Dwalin's temper. For what seemed like the hundredth time, he consulted the map, finally folding it in disgust.

"Thorin, we have no idea where we are," he said heatedly. "Why he didn't head towards Galtrev is beyond me."

Thorin breathed deeply, irritation stirring. He was just as tired as his kinsman. Struggling to maintain his composure, he replied, "He probably couldn't tell. The thicket is extraordinarily dense. We've spent the better part of the ride without seeing the sky. I doubt he could get his bearings in the dark."

"We're goin' straight south. There's nothing this way till Dunbog, an' that's another few days travel!" Dwalin growled.

Thorin bit his tongue and said nothing. The trek south had been hard. Both were tired, irritable, but they could not stop; Balin was still lost in the Wild, and if the trail was any proof, losing blood. And so he let Dwalin vent his spleen; Durin willing, they would find some sign of Balin soon.

* * *

The dwarf in question awoke sharp searing pain across his back. Quickly he rolled to his side, breathing deeply as he thrashed at the heavy covers.

"Good morning, or perhaps good afternoon." It was easier to see with daylight filtering in. The woman sat in a corner, mending what looked like a much used shirt. Put the mending aside, getting to her feet. Balin started, blinking. In the shadows, he had thought her movements awkward and strange. The daylight explained it all; she moved using a walking stick, a tall gnarled thing that made a curious metallic sound every time it hit stone. He didn't have much time to ponder as the woman was at his side, moving with surprising quickness. Her hands skimmed over his flesh. She nodded with approval at the snowy white bandage at his arm, but clucked at his skin, which was clammy to the touch. Carefully she eased him into sitting position to check his back. When she settled him on his side, Balin saw a heavy cloud over her face.

"It's still not healed…" she murmured, tapping her lips in thought. She sighed heavily, drawing out a large hunting dagger and placing it in the fire. "I suppose it's the only way, elsewise you'll just keep losing blood." The woman placed her hand in a pocket, toying with something for a moment before drawing it out. It was a small thick piece of leather. Abruptly she thrust it at him; he could feel the deep indents in the swatch. Balin felt the sweat on his skin freeze; they were teeth marks.

"Can you not stitch it?" Balin asked beseechingly, eyeing her needle and thread. The woman shot him a rueful grin.

"Master Balin, you can see my stitchery from here. It will be better this way, truly. I'm a farrier's daughter; I'm far more comfortable with metal in my hands than a needle and thread. The person who used it last survived, and I can promise you it was cleansed thoroughly."

Balin looked over, and in truth, the stitches _were_ crooked and ugly. The woman passed him a flask. "Bear up, master dwarf. You settle yourself, have something to eat and drink, and we'll fix your back up in a tick."

* * *

The clearing was bright in the late afternoon sun, fresh spring growth already dotting the rocky terrain. Dwalin watered the ponies while Thorin prowled about, searching for the trail that had died by the pool. Bodies don't just disappear, he thought to himself. And there was no sign of Balin stepping into the bloody thing. Where had he vanished to?

After an hour's searching, Thorin gave up. At least they could rest the ponies before pressing on. There was always the chance that Balin had cleaned his wounds and continued south. Thorin and Dwalin were sitting at the pool's edge, eating in a dour silence, when they caught a fleeting scent over the water; fire and hot metal. They were on their feet in a moment, working in perfect unison. The scent began to vanish as quickly as it came, ending near the rock face. They moved silently, edging around the falls until they were soaked through to the skin. Behind the falls was a large boulder; just beyond it, Thorin saw flicker of light. Nodding to Dwalin, he drew his sword and stepped passed, the roar of the falls quieting to a steady growl. Once inside, they heard it; a grunt, a hiss of pain, and the smell of burning flesh. A woman's voice, husky and warm, drifted down to them, strangely distorted in the narrow tunnel.

"Once more master dwarf, and it'll all be over." Dwalin hefted his axes in one sweeping motion, and the pair began to trot up the tunnel, steadily picking up speed until they were in a breakneck sprint. Together they burst into the cave, seeing a figure bent over the prone figure of Balin, who just recognizable by the tassel on his hood. In one hand was a red hot blade, moving deliberately to the already angry burn on his back.

As one, they raised sword and axe, murderous rage in their hearts. A sudden bark came from the left, and an enormous hound was on its feet, snarling. A moment later it was chaos. The woman heard the warning and, hefting stick one handed, caught Dwalin below the belt. Swiftly she kicked embers at the pair of them, placing herself firmly between the dwarves and Balin. Dwalin went down, gasping for air, the hound advancing upon him. Thorin was on the woman like lightning, sword at her throat.

"Drop the staff or I'll slit your throat, woman," he hissed.

"You try and I'll make a gift of your entrails," the woman replied, smiling mirthlessly. Thorin glanced down and saw a glint angled at a rent in his armor; the dagger, still hot from the fire, was poised at his belly.

* * *

"And that's where we'll end it tonight, lads," Balin said, sitting up and rolling his neck.

"You can't end it there!" Ori burst out. "You've hardly told us anything!"

"We haven't even heard about the woman!" Kili pouted. "Was she lovely? How full was her beard? Was she as tall as Thorin?" he asked eagerly.

Balin smiled, and raised his hand to hide it. "She had no beard, and taller. When I say she was a woman, I mean she was a _woman_, a daughter of men of the west."

Silence reigned, and then comments, some less than flattering, burst forth like water through a dam.

Across the fire, there was a flurry of movement. "Enough chatter!" snapped Gandalf as he surged to his feet. "The story has reached its end, or at least its end for this evening. And if you had any sense you'd keep any of your dwarvish opinions to yourself!"

"Beggin' your pardon Master Gandalf, but why…?" Dori asked.

"Because I have yet to meet a dwarf who takes kindly to hearing his lover, however long passed, maligned, abused, or insulted. And they were a good deal more forgiving of such discourse than Thorin Oakenshield!" His words cut them like a lash. The dwarves shuffled about uneasily as the truth to this statement slowly sank in. A moment later there was a hasty chorus of "Good night!" as they all scurried to their bedrolls. Balin and Bilbo were heading to their rest when they caught Gandalf's eye. Quickly, so minutely Bilbo thought he imagined it, Gandalf winked.

* * *

Ok, there it is! I'll be honest, I'm not totally happy with how it turned out. However, I couldn't keep dragging my heels; the next few chapters were outlined while I avoided this one, so here it is in all its flawed glory :)

Thanks for reading!

~H. Aegis


	4. Many Meetings

**I do not own any Tolkien creations**

**Chapter Four: Many Meetings**

The dwarves had settled for the evening, camping just off the Great East Road south of the Weather Hills. Moving efficiently, they were quick to set up the fire. Balin found himself seated, his belongings whisked away before he could do ought to stop them. He hid a grin in his beard; apparently his audience was impatient this evening.

Still, he was too much a master of his craft to rush things along. The old watchman took his time with his evening fare, allowing himself a leisurely sip from his flask before pulling out his pipe, polishing the wood so it gleamed in the firelight. As if this was some agreed upon signal, the crowd around the fire quieted.

"Very well then. Where did we leave off?" he asked, puffing air through the Longbottom Leaf, enjoying the pungent smell as it wafted about him.

"Thorin was about the cut the lovely lady," Ori piped up eagerly.

"Blood thirsty scamp," Gandalf muttered from behind his own veil of smoke. A soft chuckle raced through the company at the comment, slowly dying under Balin's gaze.

The dwarf quickly took stock of the situation. Thorin had again removed himself from the party, presumably on watch. The old lookout settled himself, stroking his beard as he dragged on his pipe. "Alright now. So, a sword at her throat and a knife at his belly… a strange beginning," he mused…

* * *

"S'op! Stop!" Balin choked, spitting the leather piece into the dirt. The dwarf struggled up, pain searing through to his heart as he dragged his cloak over his back.

"Grandfather, is this dwarf known to you?" the woman asked sharply, green eyes fixed on the dark-haired dwarf before her. She did not lower her blade.

Neither did Thorin. "Balin, has this woman harmed you?" he asked, gaze piercing. Balin dragged in a breath, only to be cut off by his physician.

"I've done nothing that wasn't necessary!" Thilia snapped heatedly.

"You call burning a dwarf's back necessary," Thorin retorted scornfully before either of his kinsmen could get a word in edgewise.

"We had to seal up the wound. Or would you prefer I let him bleed to death awaiting your approval?" she hissed, eyes flashing. "I bow to your knowledge of the healing arts, sir!" she said mockingly.

Thorin's lips were pale, his eyes glittering strangely. He took a deep breath, and Balin seized his chance before the dwarf prince could enrage the girl anymore.

"Enough!" the old dwarf shouted, pushing the pair – and their blades – apart. "Thorin Oakenshield, I present Mistress Thilia of Dren Glyn, farrier's daughter. Mistress Thilia, I present Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain son of Thror, King under the Mountain." Balin rasped, forcing down the bile that came from rising too quickly.

"No titles, Balin. Not in this place. We don't know who may be listening," Thorin said curtly, lip curling ever so slightly as he took in the woman's ill-fitting clothes and overall appearance. She was barely a head taller than him. "Thilia?" he murmured to himself, elvish name acrid on his tongue. Thilia colored, but she met his gaze squarely.

"Mistress Thilia found me the night before, and I have been in her care ever since," Balin said. As one, the pair sheathed their weapons, an act Balin noted with obvious relief.

The woman straightened her shoulders and dipped a quick, wobbly curtsy. "Welcome Thorin son of Thrain," she said, voice cool and knuckles white.

Thorin watched the exchange, and gave a quick nod to the girl. He made no return comment, and no mention of service.

"Are you finished with your surgery, Mistress Thilia?" Dwalin asked, stomach rolling as he got to his feet. The hound snarled, but subsided when the girl gave a sharp whistle.

"As a matter of fact, I have not. I'm sorry, grandfather dwarf. We do need to finish what we started," she said regretfully. Balin nodded.

"Aye lass, I thought as much," he said, gingerly laying down on the ledge once more as Thilia placed her blade in the fire to heat.

"And you're some great healer, are you?" Thorin asked, voice neutral. The girl didn't flinch.

"I assist the midwife. Here Master Balin, have a sup to steady your nerves," she murmured, passing him the flask. Balin took a deep pull, and passed it back. Thilia poured it over the leather strap before making the trade.

It was over in a moment, Thilia binding up the burn swiftly while Balin nursed the flask. Dwalin observed the exchange appreciatively, eyes drawn toward the flask in his brother's hands.

"Lass seems to have some knowledge of healin' after all," he muttered to Thorin. The girl eyed the enormous bald dwarf, lips twitching in an ill-concealed grin.

"Looks like you could use some healing yourself," she said seriously.

"I was feeling right peaky, but I didn't want to mention it," Dwalin replied gravely. Taking the flask, he bowed low. "Dwalin, son of Fundin, at your service."

"Thilia daughter of Balder at yours," the woman said, smiling.

Thorin, impatient, cut in to the conversation. "Very well. We need to get on the road. We need food and water, and we'll pay you for what you can spare, whatever the quality," he said brusquely. "Dwalin, ready the ponies. We can strap Balin to the saddle and make for safer roads." He had turned away when the woman's voice struck him like a lash.

"Keep your coin," Thilia snapped. "He's not out of the woods yet, or haven't you noticed? He'll leave when he's healthy and not a moment before," she said crisply. "I may not know much about midwifery, but I do know that when a body's been stabbed and shot and in all likelihood drugged, it's best to put _his_ body and _his_ needs before your own ego!" she snarled, tone scathing and eyes ablaze. The pair glared daggers at each other. Dwalin looked down, eyes round, wondering at the steel in the woman to look on calmly when Thorin had a mind to be intimidating.

The girl hauled in a breath, composing herself. "The town isn't fond of outsiders, But you are welcome to my family's hospitality, such as it is, for as long as its needed."

"Shouldn't you speak with your family?" Dwalin asked, curious. Thilia smiled briefly.

"I already made arrangements. It will be no trouble."

Balin broke the silence with a cough, shaking his frame so violently his hood toppled off. Thilia turned to her patient, back stiff with disapproval. She murmured softly to Balin, hands sure and gentle as she felt his forehead and listened at his chest.

"Willowbark tea for you my lad. You've got a slight fever; it ought to help. But first we need to get you in a proper house," she said softly.

Thorin caught Dwalin's eye, and looked away. He knew the dwarf would obey, whatever his decision. But the girl was right, much as it galled him to admit it. Now was not the time to be playing fast and loose with Balin's health, however objectionable the caregiver.

"In the interest of my kinsman, we accept your offer," he said stiffly.

* * *

They went down after sunset, forming a peculiar train indeed: Balin hunched over in the saddle, Dwalin leading the pony, Thorin riding, and a lame girl levering herself down the rocky foothills. They followed the stream, eventually leaving the forest for a wide-open hillside. A village was nestled between the hills, and just beyond it was a lone cabin. Outside, a woman, a midwife by her satchel, was waiting, pacing to and fro.

The woman, Ronna, positively dithered at the sight of three dwarves. Even as she helped Thilia get them into the rough cottage, she moaned to the girl, "What were you thinking? Detlef won't like it! He's back, Thilia, you'll catch it now! He'll not like it, three men, dwarves though they are, beddin' down in your home!"

"Well then that's my lookout, innit?" Thilia hissed.

"But-" the woman protested, but Thilia waved her off.

"Ronna, I don't care a wit for what Detleft will and will not like. I'd do it just to spite him!" At that, Ronna gasped, hand at her breast. Thilia, well aware of the dwarves nearby, eager for gossip about their new host, lowered her voice. "As it happens, it's not for spite. I am bound to do it; I found the old one. I cannot just send them on their way! Now stop your fussing and help me get them settled!"

The cottage was a simple affair, but serviceable. It had two small rooms, a cooking hearth, and loft, all roughly hewn but with the luxury of privacy. Connected was a small forge, a tidy, well lit thing. The whole place was just uphill of the town, clearly having been built to give the illusion of distance.

Ronna, her dithering done, proved to be a competent midwife. Once passed her hysterics, she was an adept in the healing arts, helping to settle the dwarves in the small spare room and restock Thilia with all sorts of medicinal herbs. She was just on her way out when Thilia called her back.

"Ronna, where's da? Have you seen him?" she asked, concern wrinkling her brow.

The midwife met her pupil's eye sadly. "He was headin' down to Hadon's, last I saw him. He'll have his nose well down a pint by now."

Balin saw the girl's jaw clench, nostrils white. After a moment she let loose a shuddering breath and smiled thinly.

"Master dwarves, if you will excuse me, I must go collect my father. Please, make yourselves at home."

Thorin and Dwalin exchanged glances. "Balin, we'll be back," Thorin said, hastily stowing their things in the room

"Where are you going?" the watchman asked with concern.

"To find what manner of girl we've been landed with," Thorin said shortly before shutting the door, Dwalin at his side. Balin harrumphed and settled himself on the cot. In truth, he did feel much better for being on a real bed. Before he knew it, he fell into an light, uneasy sleep.

* * *

Thilia made her way through the tavern with the ease of long practice, casually stepping over broken crockery and dodging the wild gesticulations of Hadon's patrons. Those that thought to impede her were quickly dissuaded by a solid thump with her staff. At last, she reached her target.

"Hadon!" she shouted, leaning over the bar. "Where's me da?"

"Over by the fire, lass!" the fat barman called. "Drinkin' me best ale too. Mind you pay up."

"Aye, I'll post the coin," she called, slapping a few coppers on the bar before making her way back into the crowd.

* * *

Balder the Farrier made a pathetic sight, Thorin decided, watching as Thilia bent down in front of the man. Thin, his skin had the look of old parchment, his nose red and swollen from a life of hard drinking.

Thorin took a sip of his ale, glancing at his companion. He and Dwalin nursed a tankard each, doing their best to blend in. It was a pointless exercise. For all that they had arrived at night for the expressed purpose of avoiding notice, patrons had already sidled up to their table, sounding out the newest arrivals to Dren Glyn. Their newfound company made it rather difficult to keep an eye on their quarry. After craning his neck to no avail, Thorin discovered that though they had lost sight of the girl, they could still hear her; the husky voice – and its tone – was unmistakable. At the moment, she was speaking with someone, a man from the deep pitch of the second voice.

"Have you given any thought to my offer?" the new voice asked

"It was not an offer, it was an –"her reply was off by the sound of something shattering; the crowd shifted, and the dwarves could see her again. Her companion was a man, tall for a Dunlending. He leaned over her, a proprietary hand on her hip. Thilia was supporting her father on one shoulder, using staff for leverage. She slipped slightly, but gamely held her father up. Balder looked totally oblivious; indeed, he seemed to have passed out and was only standing out of habit.

"Trust you'll not be showin' them anything outside what is necessary" the man said, leaning down towards her ear.

"You'll never know," Thilia replied heatedly, shuffling back. The man moved his grip to her arm, stroking lightly.

"Let's not be forgetting our agreement," he whispered, hand trailing lower and crossing to her skirts. A moment later the man leapt back. Thilia bulled her way passed. As she passed, met Thorin's eyes, horror flooding her features only to be tamped out a moment later.

The man caught the glance and made his way to their table. Dwalin eased back, going to help the girl with her burden.  
"Welcome to Dren Glyn, Master dwarf. I am Detlef, son of Domek, miller. Congratulate you on making aquantence with our… Thilia," he said with a smirk. Thorin nodded coolly. The man continued. "She's good lass, mind, but headstrong. We've an agreement of sorts, you see." Winked lazily. "Pleasant evening. Hope the farrier doesn't keep you up with his drunken smithing. Feel free to call on me if I can be of any service."

Thorin drank deeply, thinking.

* * *

When he arrived at the cottage, Thorin found it dark. Silently he made his way to their room. Dwalin sat waiting, live steel across his lap.

"What'd you learn, laddie?" Dwalin whispered as he eased into his bedroll, axes within easy reach.

"Very little, beyond the fact that we are living in a hutch on the courtesy of drunkards and whores," Thorin said disgustedly. Beyond door, there was a sharp gasp; a moment later, Thilia appeared, a horrible, frozen expression on her face.

"I-I've left some supper on the hearth for you. It's not much, but we'll share all we have, and gladly so." She gave a brittle smile, and dipped an awkward curtsy. "Good night, master dwarves"

"You've offended our host," Balin said quietly. Thorin started; he hadn't known the old lookout was awake. In the dark, Balin's eyes glinted. "She took me in and saved my life. She offers us all she owns, which isn't much, and shares it freely with out thought of the cost. And you cast all that aside for the word of a stranger over a pint," he said, voice laden with disappointment.

Thorin flushed under his beard, sincerely glad of the darkness. It had been decades since Balin scolded him; he didn't care for it all. "I saw them and heard them, Balin. Her man spoke with me," he said as calmly as he could.

"You don't know what you heard. How could you? We are strangers here. I forget how young you are, lad. I hope it was worth it. Worth forgetting the debt we owe." Cot groaned as the old dwarf settled himself down again, a forlorn little sound that was the last uttered that night.

* * *

No sooner had Balin finished the story than he was bombarded with questions. The dwarves, in time-honored fashion, shouted each other down until one was able to get a word in edgewise.

"Why'd the man – Detlef – back away?" Gloin bellowed.

Dwalin chuckled, and the group quieted, eager to hear the answer. It was perhaps not the most relevant question, but anything that made Dwalin chuckle was sure to be entertaining.

"The lass was a terror with her staff. Take my word on it," he said with feeling.

Almost immediately, a thought bloomed in Bofur's mind. Eyes twinkling evilly, he called across the fire, voice carrying over the crackle of embers. "So tell me, how did a wee girl manage to get the jump on our Dwalin?" He paused for effect and continued, "Y'see, I cannot fathom how a lass with a crutch managed to knock you on your arse."

The dwarves roared with laughter, rocking back and clapping their hands, Dwalin laughing right along with them.

"Same way she did for Detlef I expect," he said merrily. "Caught me in the balls, she did." What followed was an explosion of mirth, dwarves muffling the resulting sounds in elbows or beards. "Lass had quite the pair herself," he mused, causing another bought of hilarity that was hastily choked off.

"Ye liked her then?" Nori asked, wiping away tears of glee.

"Oh aye. She was a grand host, and that fierce when roused. Not every day a woman goes toe to toe with Thorin Oakenshield and gives him a thrashing."

"She sounds fearless," rumbled Gloin approvingly.

"Oh no, that she was not," Balin said quietly. Dwalin nodded in agreement, smile fading. "She was not fearless. The girl had enemies, and her own demons. Believe me, she had a great many reasons to be afraid." Balin took one last pull on his pipe, blowing a large smoke ring into the sky.

"But she was… dauntless," he said, nodding decidedly.

* * *

Beyond fire, Thorin toyed with scrap of leather, well worn with age. He had been listening attentively, smiling and wincing by turns in remembering their first meeting. She had been fierce from the first; he could see her still, in that ugly little cap and ragged brown wool jumper over her white undergown, green eyes sparking at him. He brought the scrap to his lips, kissing it; once it had been her talisman. Now it was his.

* * *

Holy Bloated Chapters/ Lovecraft-ian (esque?) dialogue Batman! Dialogue isn't exactly my strong suit, but there was lots of talking that had to happen. :) Hope you enjoyed it!

~ H. Aegis


	5. A Gathering of Clouds

**I do not own any of the (wonderful) creations of Tolkien.**

**Chapter Five: A Gathering of Clouds**

"I still say he ought to do something about this rain," grumbled Dori. "He's a wizard, after all. He could at least _try_."

"Master Dori, if you find my talents lacking, perhaps it would be best if your company found someone more to your tastes," drawled Gandalf.

Immediately the company shouted down this suggestion, many of them shooting dirty looks at Dori. The dwarf in question promptly stopped his grousing.

Dori could be forgiven his irritation; the rain had started just after dawn and had yet to cease. Their pace slowed to a crawl, the ponies doggedly working their way through heavy mud. It was nearly midday now, meaning that as a whole the dwarves were cold, surly, and soaked through to the bone.

"Balin, give us a tale," Nori appealed, a notion swiftly seconded by the others.

"We haven't made camp, and won't for some time," Balin replied, hiding his surprise. The lookout wasn't entirely sure that their leader would be quite so lenient during daylight with regards to reliving his past.

"Oh please," begged Ori.

"Come on greybeard," shouted Gloin.

"It'll take our mind off the weather," offered Fili.

"Do it Balin, or else the ride will be miserable!" called Bombur. They all clamored for the tale, adamant that only Balin's retelling could save them from the realities of the wet, muddy trek.

Thorin urged his mount to the head of the column, putting as much space between him and the lookout as possible. Taking this gesture as a subtle blessing, Balin acquiesced.

"Alright lads, alright. We'll have a story as we go. Just a short one, mind."

All eager, the dwarves fell silent, only the sounds of travel and rain daring to disturb the watchman's tale.

* * *

Life in Dren Glyn quickly settled into a steady rhythm. The dwarves would wake just after dawn, breakfast, and then work in the forge for appearance's sake. They did a tidy business with the locals, and true to her word, Thilia did not charge them a copper, though any contributions to the table were not dissuaded; it was an expensive thing to feed three dwarves. Outside of the forge they were quite at leisure, sometimes riding, sometimes resting, or elsewise spending the day walking about the village. Balin, though able to avoid a dangerous fever, remained bedridden. The cough had rooted itself deep in his lungs, a great painful, hacking thing that made his breaths come out in wheezy gasps. Until he was well, they had no immediate plans to leave, and so spent the days in relative quiet.

The girl was, loath though Thorin was to admit it, a fine host. Though the cottage was small and simple, the dwarves always woke to a large breakfast and went to sleep with a clean bed and a warm hearth. That being said, the dwarves learned to keep any mending for themselves; the girl was an absolute disaster with a needle. Thilia spent most of her time with Balin, working to keep him comfortable while Ronna came and went to supervise. Dwalin was well on his way to liking the girl; for all his natural suspicion of any outsider, Thilia had a ready wit and was never one to stint on the ale.

She remained icily indifferent to Thorin, barely saying more than good morning and good night to the dwarf prince. The few times conversation went beyond the fundamentals, the resulting arguments were apocalyptic, leaving both parties surly for days afterwards. Dwalin increasingly found himself in the role of peacekeeper, a most amusing exercise as far as Balin was concerned. Balder was a nonentity, almost always mentally or physically absent. When he did get around to working in the forge, the ensuing products were nothing of great quality or skill. He also had a strange habit of working after a night's hard drinking. Dwarves were kept up more than once by the sound of his hammer, and the results were always superior to anything he made while sober.

And so things continued in that vein for a fortnight, Balin slowly mending, the wheezing gradually fading until only the cough remained.

One morning found Thorin and Dwalin sitting around a rough table taking their midday. Thilia was preparing tea for Balin when the dog – Faroth – began howling fit to wake the dead. Thorin looked out the front door and saw Detlef making way up the hillside, clutching ragged flowers in his left hand. He was easier to see that when last they met, daylight streaming around him. Of middling height, he wore his coarse brown hair oiled back from a heavy brow. His clothes were of fine quality for the village, a gaudy necklace a bright counterpoint to the rich brown of his tunic.

"Your lover comes to call," Thorin murmured, wincing as Dwalin kicked his shin. Thilia did not turn, though a curious tension gripped her spine.

"He is not my lover," she said softly, a deadly edge to her voice. Dwalin, recognizing the tone that typically heralded combat, chimed in.

"Now lass, Thorin wasn't being untoward," he called, but Thilia had already walked into Balin's room and slammed the door shut. "Well done, lad. Now we'll not be getting a proper midday."

Thorin looked at him flatly and Dwalin shrugged, not at all sheepish about the mound of food heaped on his plate.

"I understand you don't care for each other, but could you at least not upset her before mealtime? It always throws her cooking off, an' its not that good to start with."

"I heard that!" the girl called from room.

"You were meant to, lass!" he shot back good naturedly, ducking the metal cup turned projectile that followed. "See? She's pleasant enough. So can you stop interferrin' with my repast?"

Before Thorin could reply, Detlef walked in, not bothering to knock. He nodded to dwarves, asking, "Where is Thilia?"

"In with my brother," Dwalin supplied, putting himself to work on lunch.

Thilia hobbled out a moment later, expression carefully blank as she tugged her cap down even further. The door had been left ajar; Thorin could see Balin craning his neck to see what had drawn his physician away. Faroth sidled in after the man but did not sit; deep eyes following the newest addition to his home.

"Came to see how you were holding up," the man said quietly. "We've not seen much of you in town."

"I've been busy," Thilia said curtly, giving him a wide berth as she made her way to the hearth. Detlef moved into her path; reflexively, she took a large step back.

"I brought you some flowers," he said, thrusting the tattered things at her.

Thilia said nothing and turned back her work, fingers tapping impatiently as she waited for a fresh pot of tea to finish steeping. Casually he leaned in, leaving scant inches between them. He didn't seem to be bothered that the dwarves were watching.

"I've been thinking that a summer wedding would suit quite nicely," he said lightly, hand inching up her back.

"There won't be a wedding," she hissed. She twitched the hand away, only to have it begin its ascent again.

"Why? Have you another offer?" Detlef asked, lips curved in a derisive smirk. Thilia shook her head, mouth tight. The smirk widened to reveal pointy eyeteeth. "Thought as much. You'll not get a better one, that's certain."

His hand now rested at the base of her neck. Thilia appeared to be frozen on the spot, her fists clenched. Behind the man, Faroth began to growl, hackles rising. The dwarves shifted uneasily in their seats, exchanging glances as their hands strayed to blades hidden on their person.

A moment later there was an explosive fit of coughing from Balin's room followed by the sound of crockery hitting floor. Spell broken, Thilia whirled away to tend to her patient, teapot clutched in her hands like a shield. Before she was out of reach, Detlef placed a hand on her arm, murmuring in her ear as she tried to edge passed.

"Very well, play your games. But don't forget, Gudlaug. You're a _marked_ woman, after all," he said softly, chuckling. Thilia jerked her arm away, meeting his eyes for the first time; across the room, Dwalin flinched at the sight. A moment later she was gone.

Detlef smiled to dwarves, seemingly oblivious. "Well master dwarvs, I will take my leave. Good day," he murmured, making his way out the door and back into the village.

Some time later the girl helped Balin into room, eyes warily scanning the place. Seeing that Detlef really had gone, her posture eased. The instant Balin was settled at the table, she grabbed the flowers and without a second thought tossed them into the fire. Staff in hand, she whistled to Faroth as she made her way to the door.

* * *

"I thought you were getting better," Dwalin said meaningfully to his brother after she was gone, the dog at her heels.

Balin didn't seem to hear, brow furrowed and eyes worried. "Detlef… something's not right there, lads. Like rust in the iron," he murmured, running a hand over his beard as he thought. "Thorin, take a gander at the hearth for me." Thorin eyed the stone surface carefully. Off to the side, so tiny they were almost invisible, were a series of wet red flecks. He brought one to his nose, taking quick taste before spitting it out.

"Blood," Thorin confirmed.

Balin's expression darkened as he stared into his tea cup, lost in thought. Thorin caught Dwalin's eye; the bald dwarf followed him outside.

"Follow her," Thorin said flatly the moment they were outdoors. Dwalin nodded, already tightening his belt and checking his axes.

"Somethin' amiss you think?" he asked, doing up the last strap.

Thorin watched a small figure making its way through the foothills, brooding. At last he spoke. "I'm not sure. Balin is worried, though, and he's not the type to squeak at shadows."

Dwalin nodded. "Aye, true enough. I'll keep a weather eye on her, don't fret. Mayhap tonight I'll make my way down to the tavern, make a few friends."

Thorin murmured his agreement, not really attending; his eyes were still fixed on the outline of Thilia, and he could feel her blood burning on his fingertips.

* * *

It was late when Thorin was rudely awakened by Dwalin. Blinking sleep from his eyes, Thorin heard the constant clang of the farrier at work.

"Laddie, you've got to come to the forge," Dwalin hissed, shaking him roughly.

"It's just the farrier at work," he said, putting jerkin on anyway as he followed the bald dwarf out into the cottage, embers from the hearth glowing faintly.

"No, it's not. Look," Dwalin whispered, pointing. Out in main room, nearly beyond the light of the embers, the farrier was slumped over the table, bile collecting by his mouth. "He's sodden with wine," Dwalin muttered, disdain heavy in his voice.

"Then who wields the hammer?" Thorin asked, astonished.

"_That's_ why you've got to come see!"

Silently they crept out of the cottage and made their way toward the forge.

It took a moment for Thorin's eyes to adjust to the low light. And then, he saw.

It was the girl, but not as he had known her. She stood against the fire, silhouette moving in and out of shadow, clad in only her loose under gown and a heavy smith's apron. Thilia moved with a loose-limbed grace the dwarves had never seen in her before, her staff leaning, forgotten, against the far wall.

She was comfortable here, he realized, in the smoke and soot and flickering light. Sweat rolled down her forehead to sizzle on the anvil, tendon and sinew cording out from arms and shoulders as she brought her will to bear on the hot iron before her.

"Durin's Glory," he whispered, voice hoarse. For the first time, he saw her hair. It was tied back in a rough horsetail, but the plain style could not hide the color. It was as if the blazing fire had leapt to crown her, wreathing the girl in a halo of golden flame. Dwalin kicked him, but girl didn't notice; she was too intent on the task at hand, lost in the ring of the hammer and the strike of the hammer. Thorin thought she looked like something elemental, born of fire and imagination to tempt men's mind and passions.

The two watched her movements with an expert eye. They were raw, clearly untutored, but there was some talent; indeed, she handled the tools of her craft like she had been born with them.

How long Thorin stood, entranced, he couldn't say. Eventually Dwalin drew him away, impatient to check on Balin.

Even as he went to sleep, Thorin's eyes were full of the vision, light constantly shifting over the form against the forge.

* * *

Well, there it is! More of a filler chapter, really; have to crawl before you can walk and all that. Hope you enjoyed it and thanks so much for the support!

~H. Aegis


	6. On the Doorstep

**I do not own any of Tolkien's creations. Also... SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY!**

**Chapter Six: On The Doorstep**

Thorin's eyes snapped open, the hammer still ringing in his ears. He had heard the echo long past the time when the smith hung up her tools. Pale watery light threaded its way through the small window and its shutters, casting what was now the dwarves room in a muted grey.

For Dwalin, even the weak seeming of sunshine was too much to bear. True to his word, the dwarf had spent the better part of his night in the tavern, meeting the locals and drinking his way into a ferocious headache. Hearing Thorin shift in his bedroll, Dwalin buried himself further under the blankets, wishing the world would go back to being quiet and dark for a few hours more.

In contrast to the burrowing Dwalin, Balin was wide-awake. Thorin noted the plumped pillow, the mug of tea, and the steam rising of the water basin. Thilia had plainly been and gone while he and Dwalin slept.

At the moment Balin was propped up on the cot, pouring over something. Thorin thought is must be something of great detail, as the watchman had his jeweler's eyeglass out. Brushing the thought aside, he made his way to the basin, washing his face and cleaning his teeth until he felt half-way decent before making any attempt at conversation.

"Some great tome from our hostess?" he asked, beginning to dress. Balin didn't seem to hear the sarcasm in his kinsman's voice.

"No great work perhaps, but interesting. Very interesting," he murmured, crooked nose almost touching the parchment as he bent to examine some symbol or another. Thorin grunted, curious in spite of himself.

"Did you know she's lettered?" Balin asked abruptly, sitting upright at last.

"What?" Thorin asked, startled.

"Mm," the old dwarf murmured, tapping the page with a callused finger. "Westron too, not just the local jabber. Take a look," he said, angling the small book so Thorin could see. "Her letters are a touch rough, but she's a fair hand with her sketches."

This proved to be true as Thorin flipped through the pages. The symbols had been written in a cramped, spiky hand. But beyond the words, Thorin saw designs, all meticulously laid out, the nearly illegible writing running about in notes and labels and questions.

"She gave that to me this morning before running into town. Wanted my thoughts on it, she did." Balin said comfortably as Thorin continued to rifle through. When he came to notes about them, he paused, cutting his eyes at the old watchman.

"Ah yes. Observes everuthing, apparently." Balin paused, chuckling to himself. "Even put down some of brother's less comely phrases," he said. "Which reminds me…" Balin looked down at the inert figure of Dwalin and promptly chucked his metal cup at him. "You ought to be ashamed, using language like that around the girl!" the watchman scolded.

The only answer he received was a pathetic moan from under the blankets. "I'll not do it again, just promise you'll stop shouting," Dwalin said beseechingly, his plea muffled by the heavy wool.

Balin chuckled. "Perhaps. You'd best not forget your promise, brother."

Thorin had only paid a passing notice to the exchange; his attention was still riveted on the book. A moment later his eyes darted up. "Hand signals?" he asked, voice a strangled whisper.

"Oh aye. As I said, doesn't miss much, our Thilia. Doesn't strike me as the type to miss much of anything. She knew you were in the forge last night, elsewise she'd not have shared this with me. Came in wanting to know if her designs were plausible," Balin said easily, settling himself against his pillow.

Thorin said nothing, fingers idly tracing the rough letters. After a long moment he tossed it back to Balin, his expression closed.

Balin eyed him carefully, and then sighed, thoroughly exasperated. "You know, you could make more of an effort," the old dwarf said sourly, good humor vanishing.

"Me?" said Thorin, shocked out of his usual composure.

"Yes you. She's our hostess and has been a damn sight kinder to us than we had any right to expect or deserve, you in particular!" Balin said acidly.

Thorin snorted. "She's intractable! Willful, too proud by a half, stubborn-"

"Now who does that sound like?" came a mutter from the heap of blankets. Thorin shot a glare at the offending lump.

"You'd get on if you gave her half a chance," Balin insisted, opening the journal again. "Just give it some thought, lad."

* * *

Thorin was taking his morning walk, thinking on what Balin had said. For the umpteenth time he reviewed what he knew of the girl. She possessed a terrific bad temper, was fierce towards townsfolk, and a soft hand with medicines. She showed kindness to strangers, was dutiful to her drunkard of a father, and impossibly fond of her hound. Thilia had managed to win over Dwalin, the most xenophobic of their kind, and Balin, a dwarf renowned for his caution. She saw everything and smelled of water and green things and hot metal. She presented a perplexing, convoluted picture indeed.

"Aggravating woman," Thorin muttered to himself, twitching his shoulders in irritation. As he rounded the back of the cottage, a sharp movement caught his eye. Sitting half in shadow was the object of his musings. Taking a deep breath, Thorin made his way over, fixing a tight smile on his face.

"Hello," he said, striving for a light, pleasant tone and failing miserably. The girl twitched but did not turn to him, abruptly covering something in her lap.

"Fine day," he said after a moment. In response, he received a stiff nod and a grunt.

"I hope your day is well," he tried again. Thilia gave another nod and tugged her cap down until it was nearly to the bridge of her nose.

"I had hoped we could at least attempt to be civil," Thorin said, patience fraying fast as he moved in front of her.

Thilia would not meet his eyes. Instead Thorin found himself staring at the molted greasy cap. He noted with distaste it had acquired a brown stain muddy. She had her knife pinioned between her knees, blade angled toward her face. When he took a step closer, she flinched, nearly gouging herself on the blade.

"Will you not look at me?" he asked brusquely. Thilia shook her head fiercely, the leather straps of her cap whirling about her face.

"No," she said thickly, speaking at last.

"Very well. I had hoped we could part as friends, but it that seems too lofty a goal," Thorin said bitingly. Thilia shifted on the stool, inching back ever so slightly. "Fine," he said, disgusted. "And get that knife out before you stab yourself," he snapped, reaching forward for the blade between her legs. Thilia recoiled violently, tipping off her stool, eyes flying open as she fell.

Or rather, one eye did. The other was mostly swollen shut. Thorin froze. Thilia's right eye was bruised and her upper lip was swollen. A red-brown bead oozed out from under the stained cap. The rag was now in the dirt, its formerly hidden contents of needle and thread now visible.

"How came you by these," he asked, a painful breathlessness settling somewhere deep in his chest. "Thilia-" he prompted, taking a quick step forward.

Involuntarily, the girl twitched. Thorin stilled, a cold sensation spreading through him until ice coated his veins. Very slowly he knelt before her, gentling his voice as much as he could. "Tell me," he urged.

At last Thilia met his eyes, defiant. All the same, she accepted his outstretched hand as he helped her to her feet. "I had to settle up with Hadon," she said at last, gingerly settling herself on the stool again. Her voice was thick as it struggled to find space for the words through her battered face. It was also horribly matter of fact. "For Da. The man had… instructions."

"Instructions?" Thorin asked dangerously. "Instructions from whom?" he murmured as he dipped the cloth into the water, wrung it out, and began to wipe the grime from her skin. Thilia tried to lean away.

"For once in your life just sit still," he snapped. "Now take that cap off and let's get a look at that cut."

"I was managing just fine," she said hotly, fist clenched about the needle and thread.

"You were trying to see the reflection in a blade no wider than my thumb," Thorin shot back. "I've seen your needlework. Don't be a fool." The girl harrumphed but did as he asked, spine stiff with disapproval as she removed the cap, wincing slightly. Her hair fell about her shoulders, a heavy curtain of copper-gold silk matted with sweat and blood.

Despite his tone, Thorin was surprisingly gentle as he began to wash away the dried blood. Gradually, her eyelids lowered as the tension began to seep out of her body. Still, Thorin caught the glint of her eye just beneath the lashes; she was watching. He had seen soldiers like this; even as battle ended, they were nervous and on edge. She could no more stop it than she could stop breathing. The ice in his chest twisted painfully as he cleaned away the last of the grime, revealing an ugly gash just above her hairline.

"Will you not tell me?" he asked softly, pleading. The girl shook her head, lips curving in a small, crooked half smile.

"Best not to worry yourself, Master Dwarf. It wouldn't change anything," she said kindly. Thorin made a noise of disgust.

"Stubborn girl," he muttered, taking the needle from her.

"Now that's the pot calling the kettle black," she said, grinning outright. A moment later she gasped; her lip, already swollen, had split. Thorin moved the rag to her mouth, the icy chill of the water easing the sting.

"Thank you," she murmured, taking the cloth from him. The dwarf grunted and began threading the needle. Thilia fiddled with something in her pocket for a moment before taking the thick leather piece. Apparently she always carried it, Thorin noted.

"How long have you been working in your father's place?" Thorin asked abruptly, carefully examining the cut on her head.

Thilia jerked, startled by the question. "Since I was twelve," she replied, slightly hesitant. "I used to be his striker, before we came south."

"You weren't born here?" asked Thorin, paying incredible attention to the thread.

"No. I'm not a Dunland woman, as everyone keeps reminding me," the girl murmured, smiling crookedly. "We came down from Hollin, once it seemed war was in the air."

"Indeed," Thorin murmured, lining the needle up with the topmost corner of the wound. Strangely, the girl did not bite into the leather; instead, she clenched it tightly in her fist, meeting his gaze as he worked.

"So why twelve? And why in secret?" the dwarf prodded, carefully drawing the thread through.

"Da fell apart around then. He was fine during the travel south, but Hadon had just set up the tavern when we'd arrived. Soon enough he couldn't do his work," she said, breathing deeply as Thorin punched another hole in her flesh.

"And in secret?" he prompted. Thilia laughed, a cold, mirthless sound that made the hair on his neck stand on end.

"They would not buy anything made by my hand if I had all the skill of all the smiths of all the ages. And even if any wanted to, Detlef would forbid it. It's better that the whole village thinks we're just the drunkard farrier and his wh-whore daughter."

Thorin felt his breath catch in his throat. Carefully he finished the last stitch, tying off the string before meeting her eyes.

"I owe you an apology," he said softly.

"Yes, you do," Thilia said simply. There was no heat in her words, no judgment on her face; just an acceptance that made it all the more important. The words came easily.

"I misjudged you," Thorin said, taking a deep breath before continuing. "I believed things that were untrue and said things that were cruel. You have offered us nothing but kindness, and I have abused your hospitality."

Before he could finish, Thilia touched his hand. "I accept your apology," she said softly. Thorin looked at her and saw blood trickling down from the stitches. Picking up the rag, he held her hair back to clean, all too aware of how it whispered like silk through his fingers. He found himself staring at it; even in its matted, bloodied state, it still glowed like a living thing.

"Why do you wear that ugly cap when you have this glory," he murmured, half to himself before he remembered she would be able to hear him. Thorin felt heat stain his cheeks at being caught in his admiration.

Thilia ducked her head, blushing herself she touched her hair self-consciously. "It's just something else that's different. It's easier, not being seen," she said, hand inching towards the hat. Thorin swept it up and out of reach.

"No more," he said sternly, but Thilia caught the twinkle in his eyes. "I know smiths that have labored fifty years to create something half as grand. You do us a disservice." Thilia chuckled and dipped him an awkward seated cursty.

"Very well. I'll leave it off at home," she promised, taking the proffered hand as he helped her to her feet. She moved stiffly, favoring his leg more than he had ever seen.

"I wish you would tell me," he said quietly. "He deserves a good thrashing."

He was about to leave her at the door when he felt her touch at his shoulder.

"Thank you, Master Oakenshield," she said quietly. Color was high on her cheeks, but Thilia did not look away.

"At your service, Mistress Thilia," Thorin replied, ducking a shallow bow.

* * *

"It was not an appropriate farewell, mind you. But it fitting just the same. I believe that was when he… maybe not love, but he began to see her," Balin finished to his silent audience.

* * *

Hello all! Again, so sorry for the delay! A combination of things set me way off track, but hopefully I'm ready for the next few chapters. I think part of it is definitely that the next few chapters are just going to be a bit rough. Again, thank you for your patience!

Best Wishes,

~H. Aegies

P.S. Starting to look for a Beta... any advice?


	7. The Shadow of the Past

**I do not own any of Tolkien's creations. If anyone wants to change that, however... :)**

**Also, a heads up; this is probably my favorite chapter thus far, but it was also the hardest to write. Consider yourself forewarned; this is the "rough" patch I mentioned in the last chapter. That being said, read on and enjoy.**

**Chapter Seven: The Shadow of the Past**

"Don't stop! What happened next?" Ori pleaded as the dwarves set up camp that evening. The rain had eased somewhat, though they hadn't made the progress Thorin had hoped for. Gandalf sat off to the side, pulling deeply on his pipe as he and the dwarf leader examined their maps, looking to make up time on tomorrow's ride.

"Aye, carry on greybeard!" Oin boomed. This was seconded by many of the dwarves, creating such a ruckus that Gandalf had to shush them, eyes narrowed in irritation at the disruption.

"Alright, alright lads," Balin said, hiding a grin in his beard as he settled himself by the fire, warming his aching joints. "Well, it was the strangest thing. All of a sudden, Thorin took a keen interest in my health," he said seriously, eyes twinkling. "I was saddled with two nursemaids as opposed to one, but neither of them seemed much focused on _me_," Balin said, grinning outright. "More inclined to talk to each other, with the greatest formality of course."

Gloin chuckled knowingly. "Aye. When a dwarf finds a lass he favors, all else tends to fall by the wayside."

"Is that how you and your bride are?" Kili asked slyly, nudging the redheaded dwarf in the ribs.

"This is not a story about me," Gloin said, sniffing haughtily. "And I'll thank you to keep your mouth off my wife!"

Balin, seeing Gloin's hand straying to one of his many axes, hastily brought the group back on topic.

* * *

As the month changed, Balin began walking out, Thilia taking him about town on short strolls. More often than not, Thorin accompanied the pair, ostensibly to watch his kinsman, but more likely to be near the curious farrier's daughter. The watchman enjoyed their walks, and even more so appreciated the entertainment found in observing his kinsman and his physician dancing about each other. Within a week, Balin was well on his way to a full recovery, his cough at last receding. Finally, with Thilia's blessing he was allowed to visit the tavern to celebrate his good health.

It was a merry gathering, the dwarves eating, drinking and spending most generously. To the great amusement of the crowd, Balin's first act as a healed dwarf was to take Thilia to floor in an awkward, slow shuffle of a dance.

Thilia was enjoying herself immensely, watching the dancers and tapping her foot in time to the music. Balin watched with interest before gruffly calling to his kinsman.

"Thorin, take the lass for a reel. I'm afraid that last dance has left me too winded to repay my debt to our fair Thilia," he shouted, bass voice carrying over the din. As Thorin reached for her hand, Dwalin, oblivious, made to stand.

"I could-" he began before Balin cut him off hurriedly.

"Oh nonsense brother, you've had your nose down a pint since we arrived! Let the girl have a partner still attached to his legs!" Balin said firmly. Dwalin stumbled as his brother knocked out the back of his knees, seemingly proving the watchman's point. "Away with you both!" Balin insisted. The pair needed no further urging, vanishing into the crowd to reappear on the floor. When Dwalin sent a sharp glance at Balin, his eyes were clear; plainly, the drink had yet to move him.

"Do you think it wise, brother? To encourage this?" Dwalin asked softly, nodding toward the floor. The girl was a whirlwind, her staff long abandoned. Gone was the ragamuffin hostess the dwarves had become accustomed to. She was wearing her best dress, a fitted, lovely creation of spring green. Her hair, released from its cap, was a golden curtain trailing embers as Thorin guided her easily through the reel. But none of these ornaments could match her dancing eyes or the joy that radiated from her person. She was, for the moment, graceful. In the midst of the crowd, she was all that was light and sound. And Thorin could not look away, so transfixed was he by the woman in his arms.

"I think they both deserve a spot of happiness," Balin said firmly. "Besides, do you believe we could convince him otherwise? His mind's half-made already."

Dwalin grunted, pulled out pipe. "Aye, I know it," he said thoughtfully, tapping his teeth. Thorin's growing interest in the girl was readily apparent; his kinsman was fond of music, but not of dancing. That he had reduced himself to be her squire spoke volumes.

"They look well together, do they not?" Balin asked as he sighed with no small amount of satisfaction.

Dwalin considered the pair as they danced. It didn't matter that she had a limp or that he was a full head shorter. They fit, strange though it seemed, the lame smith wreathed in golden flames and the dark exiled dwarf prince. Dwalin saw Thorin's lips move and Thilia's mouth curve in a wicked grin; her quick rejoinder startled a laugh from her normally self-possessed partner.

"Yes," he said at last, "they do."

* * *

When the pair returned, they were both flushed, exhilarated from the dance. Thilia began to fuss as her clasp slipped from her hair, the heavy weight of her tresses too much for the little thing. She struggled for a moment before Thorin took it from her and inserted it, deftly twisting her hair to and fro until it stayed in place. Of their own volition, his fingers lingered on the back of her neck. Thilia's eyes closed briefly; the girl seemingly couldn't help herself as she leaned into the touch. Balin's eyes grew wide and he shifted uncomfortably; perhaps Thorin's mind was _more_ than half-made.

"Drinks!" Dwalin shouted, breaking the silence. Thorin jerked his hand away as Balin eagerly seconded his brother, color high in his cheeks as Thilia blushed prettily.

"I'll get them!" Thilia volunteered, disappearing into the mass of bodies. Her staff remained, forgotten.

"She looks well tonight, don't you think? Very fetching, in that little green dress. Can finally get a _real_ good look at the lass," Dwalin murmured with a knowing grin, nudging Thorin in ribs. Thorin twitched, startled, before his blank gaze hardened into a stony glare

"If you ever so much as breathe a thought like again, I will beat you," he threatened, voice deadpan.

"Now brother, don't say anything daft," Balin hissed; Dwalin ignored him.

"Apologies, laddie. I meant no offense," he said innocently. "Only meant that the pair of you had quite the vigorous reel out there. Lass looks well able to kick up her heels, eh? Tireless! Very good, that; you'll be able to–"

Whatever it was good for, Balin never knew. Thorin was on Dwalin in a flash, striking him across the jaw so hard the dwarf bowled over, falling out of his chair and landing on his back.

"Oh aye brother, he's fond all right," Dwalin called, chuckling even as a spectacular bruise flowered across his face.

Thorin shot him a warning glance and sat down, gaze murderous.

Balin, however, was not paying attention. He had lost sight of Thilia in the crush. Suddenly he surged to his feet, Thorin a moment behind.

"We've got trouble lads. Look lively," the watchman growled. In the crowd, he made out a flash of hair writhing like a living thing. A tall man had barred Thilia's path, the mugs a poor defense as they grappled.

* * *

"-best not be entertainin' your guests in ways reserved for me," Detlef hissed, twisting Thilia's arm to the breaking point. The girl worked furiously, muscles bunching and shifting wildly under cloth as she tried to break his hold. The man seemed oblivious to her struggle, holding her easily.

"In any case, your presence here is most convenient. I have something for you to consider," he said easily, fishing out a wrinkled piece of parchment. Thilia's gaze flicked to it, going pale as she read the ornate script.

"I'll not sign that," she spat.

"You will, or you'll pay the price, lass," Detlef said calmly, tightening his grip.

"I will not!" Thilia cried, green eyes flaring as they shot sparks at the man.

Detlef hauled her close, his breath ghosting over her neck. "Do you think someone else will have you? One of the men?" he asked, voice dropping several degrees. "Or are you plying your trade with the dwarves, hoping they'll find some use for you in their caves?"

"How dare-" Thilia snarled, struggling anew.

"So it is a dwarf," he murmured. He moved closer, running his nose along her cheek. "Do you think he'll have you, love? That he'll want you when he sees my mark on you? Or perhaps you hoped? Dwarves are terribly proprietary, so I'm told. He'll not have you."

At this, Thilia gave a strangled sob, fighting against him even as tears came to her eyes.

The dwarves were there a moment later. Detleft released Thilia and she scampered away, mugs clanging on floor.

"Balin, see to the girl," Thorin barked, face unreadable. Balin nodded, making for the door.

As he passed, he murmured to Thoin, "No violence, lad. It'll do neither her nor us any good." Thorin met his eyes coldly, and then turned his attention to Detlef. Fixing his expression to that he used in days gone past, he bowed to the man.

"My dear Master Detlef, my kinsmen and I cannot thank you enough for your town's fine hospitality. Let us buy you a round to celebrate the health of my kinsman!" he said smoothly, lips contorted in a cheerful smile.

* * *

"Lass, will you not sit down? You're making me dizzy, flittin' about so," Balin pleaded, watching as Thilia paced to and fro. "What did he say to rattle you so?" he murmured, deep-set eyes concerned. The girl had been a whirling dervish since they had gained the cottage, her features pinched and skin a deathly white.

"I'm not rattled!" Thilia said shrilly, her tone belying the truth. Balin watched as she toyed with her blade one moment and the leather piece the next, all the while rubbing her left thigh.

Her actions betrayed her; a horrible thought took root in the watchman's mind.

"Lass… who used the bit of leather before me?" he asked carefully, eyes never leaving the girl's face. She blanched.

"Never you mind," Thilia snapped, trembling. "Nosy, interfering dwarves! Can't you just leave a thing be?" she said, voice rising wildly.

Balin placed himself in her path and gently took her hand. Thilia flinched, but he held firm. His eyes were kind as he spoke. "Lass, you've seen more of my body than anyone save me own mother. Let's not have lies between us. Tell me, afore you wear a rut in the floor."

Thilia looked at him for a long, unblinking moment. Balin hardly dared to breathe, so intent was her gaze. And then, something in her broke. Thilia blinked, and Balin felt he was staring into some raw wound long left untreated. Almost in a daze, she sat herself by the fire, lips moving as she searched for a place to begin. After so long in motion, her sudden stillness filled him with an unspeakable dread.

"It was the end of winter," she said after a moment, voice so quiet Balin had to strain to hear it over the crackle of the fire. Thilia's eyes were wide, as if trying to ground herself in present and keep from seeing visions of events long past. "I was – I like to be clean. I was coming back from the stream when he caught me… caught me up. He grabbed me and kept trying," she paused, swallowing hard as she returned her gaze to the fire. After a deep breath, she continued. "-trying to get under my – trying to hurt me. I fought, but I didn't have my knife or, or any-anything. It excited him," she said in horrible, broken whisper. "I screamed, and thank the Valar people heard. He said that he'd get another chance, but he'd leave me something to remember him by. And he carved his m-mark into my leg. And it- it hurt," the girl said, tears entering her voice. "I went home, and I didn't say anything to anyone. I just wanted to go to the forge. I can make wonderful things. It's – it's like I feel a heartbeat in the metal of what they're to become. But I couldn't make," Thilia's voice caught, and she dragged in a ragged breath, "I couldn't make _anything_. All I could see were monsters and teeth and pain," she murmured, lip trembling. "So went back inside to wait. And I let my father drink. And drink. And _drink_ until he pissed himself," she spat, teeth bared in an awful grimace. "And I went back in the dead of night, and I put my blade in the fire. And then, stripe by stripe, I burned it off. It took three times. I had to put it back in the forge between each so it would be hot enough to wipe his mark from me forever."

Balin watched her, aghast. He didn't think she realized she was sobbing, so lost in the memory was she. At last she looked away from the fire, eyes red.

"It was never what I wanted. But it's not his mark. I'd sooner walk into the flames of hell then bare anything of his. It's ugly, but it was _my_ choice, and _my_ work. Not his," she hissed, voice ragged. "It hurt. But I can make things again. I don't go anywhere without my staff and my knife and my dog. I hate being alone. Because if I'm alone he can hurt me. But…I can make things again," she repeated softly. Wordlessly, Balin opened his arms. Thilia collapsed into them, body shaking with silent sobs long repressed.

* * *

Outside the door, Thorin and Dwalin gaped at each other, horror spreading across their features. Dimly, they were aware of hearing the back door shut and Thilia call for Faroth as she made her way into the gloom.

Thorin stood, torn between a desire to follow her and the need to meet with his kin.

"Go lad. Offer the girl what comfort ye can. Damned sure she'll need it," Dwalin rumbled. Thorin nodded, and made his way after the girl. Dwalin watched as the young dwarf prince faded into the night, and shook his head sadly. He dearly hoped Thorin would be of use to the girl. If not…his gaze hardened as he considered the village below. If not, there were other ways to offer comfort. And restitution.

* * *

Soft, so soft he thought it was his imagination, he heard drops of water on the pond surface. There, hidden amongst the reeds, was the girl. In her gown she nearly faded into the darkness; only the moonlight on the water made her visible, softening the normally fiery halo into a faint, luminous glow. She was crying, body shaking with the effort of remaining silent. Suddenly she was on her feet, and then she was tearing the cloth from her body as if it were something foul. Thorin stood, transfixed, and the girl – woman, he corrected himself – stripped to her skin.

She was lovelier than he could have imagined. Her skin glowed in the faint light, until she was a pale ghost in the shadows, a creature of molten starlight. He could see the details so often concealed by her ill-fitting clothes; shoulders corded with muscle, hips that flared out, and a full, high breast. She turned slightly, and what he saw put paid to his inquisitiveness; a swathe of darkness all along her left thigh, an ugly wound again her pale skin. Breath caught in his chest as he realized that was the scar, a self-made wound to salvage her pride. Unflinchingly, she stepped into the pond before diving under the surface.

As Thorin began to ease closer, he heard a rustle. His hand flew to his blade, drawing it in a flash of cold steel. Slowly, something moved out of the shadows. It was Faroth the hound. As he sheathed his sword, the dog wagged its tail before turning its attention back to the water. Slowly, she surfaced, scrubbing her skin furiously. As she rose, Thorin could see her pale back, the dip of her waist, swell of…

Feeling heat rising in his face, Thorin coughed. Instantly Thilia ducked down to her shoulders, spinning about to face him. Thorin tried very hard not to notice how wet tendrils of hair snaked over the top of her breasts.

"You heard," she said. It was not a question.

Thorin shrugged, neither a denial nor apology. "I told Detleft that honor demanded we stay to pay off our debt to you. We'd like to impose on your hospitality a while longer," he said instead, focusing intently on her left ear.

Thilia cocked her head at him, pondering. "Turn around," she said at last.

Thorin did as he was bid. He was tempted to turn as she exited; he swore he could hear every movement she made; the smack of wet hair on her bare back as she shook it out, the rasp of cloth over damp skin. After several agonizing moments, he heard a soft cough.

"'m decent. You can turn around now," she called softly. Thorin did, and for a moment wished he hadn't. This was a Thilia he had never seen before, soft and vulnerable, damp tresses cascading about her face. She made her way over to him, stopping a few feet away. He saw her shoulders rise as she drew in a shaky breath before meeting his eyes. Back was the toughness he had grown accustomed to.

"Don't you pity me," she murmured as they sat, arranging the heavy skirts about her feet.

"I wouldn't dare," Thorin said earnestly, and it was true. What feelings churned deep inside him were not based in pity; he felt respect, admiration, and a strange, fierce pride in this peculiar little woman. He well understood why she had taken a hot blade to her flesh; her pride was she had left. Yes, he thought. He understood that very well.

"I was thinking that I might accompany you about the village," he said after a moment, staring at the reeds. He felt her questioning gaze on his face, but did not turn. Eventually she sent him a wobbly smile. Thilia inched closer to him, until their little fingers were barely touching on the sandy bank.

* * *

The dwarves sat in overwhelmed silence. At last, Ori broke the stillness.

"Why would he treat a woman like that," he asked, bewildered. "The Eryn Vorn don't, an' they're the same breed as Dunlendings."

"Aye, but it wasn't that simple, lad," Dwalin said sadly. "She was not considered a Dunland woman till she married a Dunland man. An' Detlef had made it plain he'd not let another have her," the dwarf said, taking a deep pull from his pipe. "He made her life a misery, the bastard."

Bifur made a rude sound and gestured violently. Bofur nodded in agreemnt. "Aye, like he says, when does Thorin kill Detlef?"

"He didn't, Balin said, yawning. "That's a story for another night. Well lads, it's time for a spot o' shut eye."

"How could be not?! No dwarf would tolerate such disrespect toward his betrothed," Fili burst out, seething.

"She wasn't his betrothed. We only knew he was fond; there could be no telling how far he'd take it. But again, that's a story for another night." Balin said heavily as he went to his bedroll. The remainder of the company sat a long moment in the quiet, hoping the stillness would ease the pain they all felt on behalf of a girl they'd never met.

* * *

Well, there it is. Thanks for reading, and let me know what you think so far. I have a few choices coming up (to lime or not to lime/ sequel or not to sequel) and I'd love your input. Thanks again!

~H. Aegies


	8. Conversations on Courtship

**I do not own any Tolkien material. Also... I'm back!**

* * *

**Conversations on Courtship**

"When does Detlef die?" Oin asked bluntly as the dwarves settled into camp after a short day's ride. Oin was quickly seconded and echoed until a great clamor arouse in the camp. Balin sighed, rubbing his face wearily. In truth he felt little inclined to tell stories that night; Gandalf storming off and Thorin's subsequent dour mood had cast a veritable pall over the camp. The old watchman knew he hadn't been the only dwarf looking warily over his shoulder as he stashed his bedroll under a bush.

"Stop rushing the tale!" snapped Dwalin. "We'll get to the ending at the end, and not before!" Balin caught his brother's eye, gratitude plain on his face. Trust Dwalin to deal with the more demanding of their troupe.

"You'll have your tale when my brother is good and settled. Any dwarf who feels otherwise is welcome to vent his frustrations… to me," Dwalin said icily, thumbing his axe-blade with careful consideration. Any objections quickly died upon seeing the militant gleam in the bald dwarf's eye.

Balin eased himself before the fire, sighing in pleasure as the heat began to warm stiff limbs. The others scuffed at the ground, ill at ease with Dwalin's threat hanging over them. Only the hobbit, Mr. Baggins, met his eye wistfully before looking away, plainly in no hurry to be caught by Dwalin.

Shaking his head – he must be getting soft! – Balin rested his gloved hands on his knees, leaning in so the flames cast his face in a craggy likeness of light and shadow.

"Well lads, Thorin didn't let the girl out of his sight. Walked her to market, helped hang the washing; didn't matter, so long as he was in arm's reach. He'd even stopped makin' excuses," Balin began, a smile tugging at his lips. The dwarves practically leapt over each other to gather close, each dwarf wanting to be as close as possible to hear the watchman over the fire.

* * *

Dwalin looked over his mug at his kinsmen before taking a long pull. Wiping his mouth with his beard, he asked, "So, when are we leaving?"

Thorin, wrapped in his own thoughts, seemed not to hear. He had been that way since Detlef's true nature had surfaced. At the moment, he was engrossed with a spare bit of parchment, charcoal dancing upon it in quick, sure strokes.

The only reason he's so calm now is that he can hear the girl out back, Dwalin thought, very much amused.

Balin, seeing the thin lines of worry on the dwarf prince's face, sighed heavily. "I don't know, brother. I've got these pains in my chest," he said, coughing weakly.

"Aw you're full of shite," Dwalin said comfortably. In truth he was no more eager to leave than the others; Thilia was a fine hostess, and a good enough cook when the mood took her. Besides, he didn't much like the thought of leaving her to Detlef's good graces.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Balin said sniffily. "I have suffered a grievous injury, an' if you're not goin' to take my health seriously-"

The brothers continued in this vein for some time, bickering back and forth good-naturedly. Eventually, Dwalin glanced at Thorin, attempting to look over the dwarf prince's shoulder. "And what has you so entranced?" he asked, snatching the parchment away. Across much of it was an intricate design. Thorin's sigil had been made organic in the form of a hair ornament. Dwalin raised an eyebrow; it was a lovely, effortless thing, made to twine through strands lovingly.

"A parting gift, eh? Something to remember her admirer by?" he chuckled, nudging the dwarf prince in the ribs. Thorin snatched it back, stony-faced as he carefully rolled up parchment.

"She'll have no need for mementos. The girl leaves with us." Thorin said coldly.

Balin and Dwalin exchanged swift glances. Dwalin opened his mouth, but Balin cut him off.

"Brother, go help Thilia with the wash." Needing no further bidding, Dwalin hastily ducked out through the door and towards the pond, a new-found enthusiasm for laundry speeding him along.

* * *

"So. When was this decided?" Balin asked, drumming his fingers on the table.

Thorin ignored question. "As soon as you're well, we'll make way. The paths should be clear by now. It'll be easy riding-"

"Don't dance around me, laddie," Balin spat, scowling fiercely. "Have you spoken to the girl about this?"

"What would you have us do? Leave her? Ever at the mercy of that snake Detlef, barely eking out a living?"

"I would have a straight answer! Tell me: do you have an understanding with the girl?"

Thorin's mouth twisted, a sour expression on his face. "I do not."

Balin nodded. "And has she agreed to come, just the same?"

The dwarf prince's sour expression deepened, but he did not answer.

"You didn't tell her, did you?" Balin asked shrewdly.

"She cannot stay here," Thorin repeated stubbornly.

"Oh no, you've just decided to order her life as you see fit!" Balin snapped, incensed. "Never mind that she's no idea of it, never mind that she's yet to give her consent!" Thorin twitched, but held his tongue. His silence served only to riled the old dwarf.

"What do you mean to do, lad? Set her up as your striker?" Balin asked with a derisive snort.

"I will make her a place in our kingdom," Thorin ground out, eyes flashing.

"Thrain will forbid it. If Thror were alive, he would forbid it as well. Have you gone mad? A woman, a _human_ woman in our halls-"

Thorin let out a harsh bark of a laugh. "You know better than to forbid a dwarf anything, Master Balin. I will not be swayed in this. I will not yield!" he said with deadly surety.

"I didn't say you should!" snapped Balin, shocking the younger dwarf. "But don't you dare let pride blind you to the truth!"

"I will-"

"What? Protect her? Shelter her? Cage her's more likely. You would rip her from all she's ever known. This will have consequences, and I think the lass has a right to know them, before and not after!" Balin rumbled, blood rushing to his face. Thorin's gaze flickered, and the older dwarf pressed on, pushing his advantage

"Would you even have told her, Thorin? That you were to take the throne? That you will age only a few years while she withers and dies? Or that she may be killed because of your choice?" he asked heatedly.

"If I leave her, she will be," Thorin said, his voice an anguished growl. "Detlef will waste no time finding some way to force her into his bed. Even if he doesn't kill her in body, he will kill her spirit. I will not - I _cannot_ - sit by and let it happen!"

"You love her," Balin whispered, shaken.

"And I thought you approved," Thorin said, laughing mirthlessly. "Only to find myself betrayed."

"Lad, I've never pretended otherwise." Balin said quickly. "But she deserves better than this…thing, this half-cocked attempt to steal her away. She has a right to _know_, a right to be treated as a partner rather than a prize."

Thorin's temper, so long held in check, flared. "I want to keep her safe."

"As do I. And I'll keep her safe, even from your ham-handed attempts at courtship if I must. She is not a thing to be ordered about, cousin. In your haste to protect her, you've opened her to a great personal harm. And I'll not let you do it," Balin hissed.

Thorin glowered, but said nothing. The old dwarf continued. "Have you considered what will happen if she refuses? If she chooses to stay? What of her father?"

"The father will come with," Thorin replied.

"And the hound?" Balin pressed.

"Faroth as well."

Balin snorted. "A veritable party train we'll make," he muttered. Thorin said nothing, eyeing his kinsman coolly. After a moment, Balin repeated his last question. "Have you considered what will happen if she refuses?"

At last, the dwarf prince blinked. Balin heard the young dwarf draw in a shaky breath before giving him a razor of a smile.

"Then I will do what I must."

* * *

Balin watched his kinsman for a long moment. At last, he shook his head. "All right, lad. All right," the old dwarf said wearily, stroking his beard. "Let's have a look at those sketches of yours."

For a moment, Thorin sat, stunned. Then he fished them out from his belt purse, smoothing the parchment onto the table. Balin leaned over, eyeing them carefully, tutting to himself.

"The design's well enough. It suits her. What metal will you use?"

"Copper," Thorin replied instantly. Balin nodded, toying with his beard as he thought aloud.

"Aye, that'll work nicely. Gold would pale in that hair of hers, and she's too fiery for any silver…" his voice trailed off, fingers tracing the design over and over. Then he tapped the design at the bottom. It was a small, intricately carved band.

"The ornament's well enough, I'll leave that to you. You may as well cast the ring, but _I'll _be doing the engraving."

Thorin snorted, a grin hiding in his beard. "You'll do no such thing. I'll be making the band, and doing the close work."

"Lad, you're a fair hand with a hammer, but rings are delicate, tricky things. You'd best leave the artistry to the masters," Balin said, waving a hand at himself.

"I've been working metal since before I was bearded-" Thorin began hotly, only to be cut off.

"And I've had a beard since afore you were born," the old dwarf retorted. "You don't teach your dam to suck eggs, an eagle to fly… and you most certainly do not tell a dwarf how to work his craft."

Thorin shot the old dwarf an icy stare, which Balin returned with equal coolness. Then the two broke out in smiles.

"It'll be my gift to the pair of you. Now go, start your work. I need a ring before I can start the etchings," Balin said, patting the young dwarf on the back.

* * *

"Well that was boring," Kili said as soon as Balin had finished. "Nothing happened!"

The other dwarves joined in this disgruntled chorus.

"I rather thought there'd be more to it!" complained Dori.

"When does Detlef die?" shouted Ori.

"What's the point of that bit?" groused Bofur.

They had begun to build in volume when Dwalin slammed his axe blade into the earth, sharp blade biting deep into the soil. The silence was instant.

Balin sat warming his hands, quite amused. "My lad, there's something to be said for peaceful, quiet stories; it's an appreciation I'm sure you'll have by our journey's end," he said, smiling at Fili.

"Now don't you lads have some ponies to be watching?" Dwalin asked, a good deal less amused. "Go on now, get. We'll send the burglar along with your supper soon enough."

With much grumbling and several mutinous backward glances, Fili and Kili made their way into the woods. Meanwhile, Balin settled himself down in his bedroll, eager for a quick nap before his watch. In truth, he felt better for the tale. A nice, quiet tale for a nice, quiet night. Dimly, he was aware of Mr. Baggins padding off to Fili and Kili with their supper. Yes, he mused drowsily. A nice, quiet night.

* * *

**Did I mention they're at Trollshaw? :)**

**Anyway, hello! Sorry for the long absence. In addition to my full time job and coaching, I started up grad school back in January. It kind of took over my life for a bit. But I never stopped thinking about this story. Chapter nine is about halfway done, and the last two after that are almost finished. I'm hoping I can polish this one off by September :) Hope you are all well, and as always, please R+R; feedback is always appreciated.**


	9. The Hands of a Lady

**I do not own any JRR Tolkien material.**

* * *

**Chapter Nine: The Hands of a Lady**

The dwarves had arrived in Rivendell before Balin was able to revisit his tale. Between the mess with the trolls and being tailed by an orc pack, there had been very little time to think, let alone tell stories by the fire.

Though they were initially ill at ease in the Elvish outpost, Lord Elrond proved to be a spectacular host. The fare was good, though there was less meat than they would have wished. Their cups were never empty. Balin, looking over the rim of his goblet at an extremely bleary eyed Gloin, reflected that the wines were of a particularly good – and particularly potent – vintage.

Lord Elrond, Gandalf, and Thorin were all in deep conversation at the head table when Balin felt a swift kick to the shin. Choking briefly, his wiped his lips with his beard before turning to the owner of the offending appendage.

Fili was gazing up at him, eyes bright. "Well?" he asked. Balin felt his mind blank, quite unsure what the young dwarf meant. The others in their company, however, drew nearer; they appeared to have been waiting for some such sign.

Cottoning on, Balin sighed, glancing over his shoulder. "Lads, they're not but a few feet away, I really don't think-"

"Oh they're banging on about orc activity or some such thing," Kili said hurriedly, waving away that minor concern. "If we stay quiet…"

Dwalin snorted into his ale, muttering something that sounded like, "That'll be the day." Kili ignored him.

"Please Master Balin, we've not had a tale in such a long while," Ori pleaded, eyes wide.

"I'm sure it do us all a turn for the better," Bofur chimed in, smiling.

Balin raised his eyes heavenwards. "Oh for Durin's sake," he murmured, hiding a small grin. Still, out of habit he glanced at Thorin. The dwarf prince appeared to be totally immersed in his talk with Lord Elrond. But Balin did not miss the wave of the prince's hand; a quick, small gesture of assent.

Balin rubbed his hands together and leaned in. The dwarves followed suit, the tassels of their caps creating a strange, wobbling field across the table.

"Very well lads," he began in a hoarse whisper. "When we last left it, Thorin had made up his mind to do properly by Thilia-"

"Is there going to be a wedding? I love weddings!" Ori whispered eagerly, only to be shushed violently. Dwalin popped his head up to check on the high table. Seeing that its occupants were otherwise engaged, he nodded before hunkering down.

"As I was saying," Balin began, shooting a stern glance at the thoroughly chastened Ori, "Thorin had made up his mind. So naturally, he had to tell the girl. So…"

* * *

Thorin took his time on the walk to Groth Lanthir. He could feel the copper burning a hole through his inner pocket. Though outwardly calm, the dwarf prince was running over the words in his head, hastily searching for some pleasing arrangement, some deep-seeded poetry that would satisfy the girl. He still had not found one by the time he came to the clearing. He glanced up, and there she was. Thorin felt something in his chest seize up at the sight.

She was just finishing tidying up the space, sweeping out debris from the cavern mouth. Dimly, he heard the pant and snarl of the hound; Faroth no doubt chasing rabbits again. As always, she drew him like a lodestone. Even wearing her plain work shift, she was glorious. He found his eyes stealing to her hair. Today, it was in a messy coil at the base of her skull. Still, nothing could detract from its color, or her eyes, or her skin...

Thilia glanced up, eyes flaring at the sight of him. Thorin felt that painful tightness in his chest ease, then return as the metal in his coat slapped against his breast. There was still much to be done, and so much to say.

Thilia beat him to it. "Good day Master Dwarf," she called, a smile in her voice.

Thorin stopped and bowed, swallowing the words he had meant to say. They paled before her. The girl cocked her head at him, curious as to his silence. Thorin cursed inwardly. His mouth was dry, his tongue a useless, leaden thing. Instead, he fished out a small bundle.

"Here," he said gruffly. Thilia took it, bemusedly unwrapping the cloth from the package. Her eyes widened, darting up to the dwarf before returning to the thing in her palm. She traced the geometric symbol delicately, fingers flowing over copper as the lines gradually flared out. Thilia felt her cheeks warm; she recognized the sigil as Thorin's. It was a hairpiece, designed to cradle the back of the head. It was also the most exquisite piece of workmanship she had ever seen, the copper glowing as if possessed of the flame that forged it. Unsure of what to say, she dipped a curtsy.

It seemed that was enough.

"Balin is on the mend. We will be leaving in two days time," the dwarf said, steadying his nerves for what came next. Thilia kept her gaze on the ornament in her hand, throat closing tightly.

"I…see," she managed to say, eyes prickling.

At last Thorin found his voice, words rushing out, heedless of the order.

"Come with us," he said urgently. "You'll have a better life. All dear to you will be welcome."

Thilia twitched, the copper growing heavier and heavier in her hand. As he spoke, it began to look less like a gift and more like a price paid.

"- will build a place for you in the halls of my people. You will never want for anything," Thorin was saying, nearly finding his rhythm before her expression, suddenly closed, brought him up short.

* * *

"And what would I be?" Thilia asked, her tone neutral.

"What do you mean by that?" the dwarf asked, momentarily thrown. All the warmth of her greeting had fled, replaced by a strangely cruel tilt to her mouth.

"You are to take the throne, are you not, Thorin son of Thrain, son of Thror?" she asked bitingly. "What place would – _could – _you build for the lame smith from the wilderlands?"

Thorin's eyes narrowed. "A place of high honor," he said sharply, even as the ring jangled in his breast pocket.

"Would I be your charity case, saved from a life of destitution?" the girl asked, voice hard and eyes mocking. Thorin felt his temper rise, so like their earliest confrontations. Unable to completely quell his irritation, he glared girl, voice nearly a growl.

"No, I-" he began, only to be cut off as Thilia began to stalk back and forth, one bloodless hand clenched about the ornament.

"Some pet, then. The lame smith with the strange hair. A fascinating souvenir, to be sure," she said scathingly. Thorin felt the breath flee his lungs. Her next words cut him like a whip.

"Or perhaps your concubine, while you marry a proper lady to beget heirs with?" she asked, contempt laden in her voice. "Or none of those things, just a whore?" she hissed, loathing dripping from every syllable.

"I don't want you to be my whore, I want you to be my wife!" Thorin roared, piercing eyes ablaze. Thilia blanched. Thorin glared, but said nothing. He would not unsay the words; he had meant them. Shaking, Thilia sank onto a low rock, all anger fled, stunned into silence at last.

* * *

"And I think that's far enough," Balin said primly, cutting off the tale abruptly. There was an explosion of disbelieving whispers, making the table sound rather like the Bruinen not far beyond.

Balin would not be swayed. "He proposes, she responds. And the rest…well, it's hardly proper dinner conversation," he said, narrowing his eyes at the crowd. "Besides, we have young dwarves present, with no idea what lies beneath a lady's skirt-"

"I do too!" Ori said indignantly.

"Ori!" yelped Dori, looking thoroughly scandalized. Nori, unable to contain his amusement, broke out into helpless laughter as Dori began hissing furiously in the young dwarf's ear, both of them a spectacular shade of red. Fili and Kili, well aware of such scrutiny, wisely kept their heads down and mouths shut.

Dwalin, casting a wary eye about them, murmured to Bofur, "He'll not continue unless you lads can control yourselves."

"Keep in mind, those that don't can probably expect to be used as Thorin's whetstone later," Gandalf said quietly, making them both jump. Dwalin chuckled, and Bofur gulped audibly.

The wizard turned his attention to the old watchman. "Master Balin, once dinner is over and everyone is settled, we would like you to accompany us. There are certain matters that must be addressed," he murmured. Balin nodded, briefly distracted from the hasty whispers and mutterings of the company. When he turned back to the table, the old dwarf felt his hair stand on end.

Between the promise of more information and the threat of possible mutilation, the dwarves found all the incentive needed to sit quietly, all gazing expectantly at Balin.

"Oh all right," the watchman said with an exasperated sigh. "But the first sign of you lot-"

"We won't!" squeaked Ori, still rather red from his discussion with his brother.

"Promise," grunted Gloin.

Eyeing them suspiciously, Balin nodded. "Very well then. Anyhow…"

* * *

Thorin said nothing, breathing hard. Thilia sat very still, looking anywhere but the dwarf prince.

Her head was bowed, hands opened in front of her. "I am a farrier's daughter," she said at last, voice a ragged whispered. "I scrounge in the forests, I work metal…I am no lady, waiting for her consort." She raised her hands, showing evidence of her claim; calluses riddled her fingertips, accented by the tracery of fine white scars and burns.

Thorin let out a muffled curse. Grabbing her hands, he hauled her forward; Thilia twisted and writhed in his hold, but Thorin held firm. At last she stilled, eyes hard and body tense as a spring. He heard her silent challenge. She dared him to speak, to deny it, to lie to her.

Thorin drew a deep breath, steadying himself. In his pocket, the copper burned reproachfully, reminding him to be kind. "I know these hands," he said quietly, drawing one before his face. "This is the hand that pulled an arrow from my kinsman's back," he murmured into her skin, laying a kiss on her palm. Then he lifted the other. "And this is the hand that closed the wound," he said softly, lips ghosting over a scar. He could feel her shaking.

"These are the hands that defended us," he continued, "the hands that healed, that fed, housed, and cared for us. These hands create, seeking to draw out the beauty of a thing in its purest form," he whispered. He kissed her wrist, slowly, inexorably drawing her closer, his voice deepening. "These hands fought an attacker, and burned his mark from her flesh to preserve her dignity."

They were nearly face-to-face now, Thilia's eyes glittering strangely. Thorin held her hands lightly, squeezing them before letting go. "I know these hands, Thilia," he said simply. "And they are finer than any hands in any tales of men, dwarves, or elves. And I ask for them, and only them."

* * *

Thilia raised her hands carefully, almost fearfully, barely grazing his face. He turned into her touch, placing another kiss on her fingertips. Thorin held his breath, her touch light and fleeting. He forced himself to remain still, aware to his toes that he could not force her. Tentatively, she kissed him. Feeling her mouth on his, easing into the kiss, Thorin let out a shuddering gasp. She retreated instantly, looking stunned, her mouth red and open.

"I'm sorry, I don't – I didn't-" she said hastily, tripping over the words. Growling a muted curse, Thorin hauled her to him, silencing her.

* * *

"And that's more than enough to be getting on with," the watchman mumbled, face hot.

"But you know what happens, don't you," Bofur asked, eyebrow raised. Balin colored, a fabulous garnet against the white of his beard.

"Master Dwarves, if I might escort you to your chambers." A young she-elf appeared next to the table, gesturing down the stairs and inside.

Balin practically leapt to his feet. "Yes, my lady, thank you," he said hurriedly. Grumbling, the others followed suit. They continued to heckle him as they made their way through Rivendell, heedless of who might overhear.

"Out with it! Come on, greybeard!" Bofur shouted, Bifur gesticulating forcefully behind him. The other dwarves joined in, forming a raucous train down the steps.

"I most certainly will not!" Balin spat. He was very much regretting the whole story telling business. Really, he ought to have known better…

"I don't understand!" wailed Ori. "What happened?!"

"Well Ori, when two dwarves love each other very much," Kili began sarcastically.

"She's a woman," Oin interjected.

"I doubt the mechanics have changed much," Fili said, bemused, while Kili sniggered beside him.

The crowd continued to throw out more and more outrageous suppositions. Even Dwalin's threats could not quell them. The company, quite unrepentant, continued unchecked until Bilbo rushed back, hushing them. The hobbit, eager to see more of the last homely house, had run ahead. Now, he was a sickly shade of green.

"Shush! Quiet! They're all down in the hall, Thorin and Gandalf and Elrond! Do you really want Thorin to hear you lot trying to guess her measurements?!" the burglar hissed urgently, all but wringing his hands as they neared the end of the steps.

"No, they do not," a deep voice rumbled. Thorin awaited them, piercing eyes hard as they took in his company. "Gandalf, Lord Elrond, if you would," he murmured, gesturing vaguely. The two, well seasoned in such matters, bowed, heading just slightly out of earshot as Thorin began to stalk through the crowd of suddenly silent dwarves.

"Let me make this plain. Balin is telling a story, with my permission," he began in deadly earnest. Ori shivered; the chill rolling off the dwarf prince was palpable. "Whatever details he chooses not to share, you will do without. I don't mind how you discuss women…except this one." Icy blue eyes swept over his nephews before circling through the group. "There will be no wild guesswork, no speculation about details that do not concern you. Anyone who has trouble remembering this is invited to face me at a time and place of my choosing."

And then he was gone, sweeping away toward Gandalf and Lord Elrond. "Balin!" he barked. The watchman hastily followed, making his way to Lord Elrond's study. Bilbo watched wistfully, and started when Gandalf jerked his head at the hobbit.

As the small group exited the dwarf quarters, the remainder of the company let out a great exhale. None had so much as dared to breathe when Thorin spoke.

* * *

Thorin was still seething hours later. He had been wandering the halls since his meeting with Elrond. One white knuckled fist was locked about a small scrap of leather; the other, his sword. He was still unsure which response he ought to take. Though the scrap whispered to him for mercy, the thought of beating the more insolent of the company with the flat of his blade did hold a certain appeal.

He was so wrapped up in these thoughts that it was some time before he noticed the elf's presence. He started, and then bowed.

"Lord Elrond," he said coolly.

"Thorin Oakenshield," the elf replied, nodding regally. Thorin made to leave, but his host called him back.

"Does something trouble you, son of Thrain, that you cannot rest?" the lord asked, voice surprisingly kind. Thorin said nothing, watching the elf through hooded eyes.

"It is hard, missing one person so much," Elrond mused, half to himself. "I find the garden a good place to visit, when I miss my own lady."

"Your lady?" Thorin asked in spite of himself. Elrond nodded, eyes seeing a great deal more than the dwarf-prince wished. Thorin found himself shifting in place, ill at ease under such kind scrutiny.

"My lady, Celebrian. She has gone over the sea to the Undying Lands. It is hard, with one's heart elsewhere," the tall elf said, gazing into the valley. Thorin nodded mutely. The pair stood in silence for some time, Thorin deigning to lean against the terrace rail next to his host. At last, the dwarf broke the stillness.

"Have you never had another?" he asked, voice pained.

The proud elf-lord cut his eyes at the dwarf prince before softening. "Never," Elrond murmured. "She is my wife."

"Mm. We are of the same mind," Thorin murmured, turning butter-soft leather between his fingers once more.

"Perhaps elves and dwarves have something in common after all," Elrond said lightly, the corners of his mouth lifting upward ever so slightly.

Thorin managed a thin smile. "Perhaps."

"I must leave you now; the council awaits. Wander the gardens, if you've a mind to," Elrond advised. "Rest, if you can. I hope you find peace." Bowing, Elrond took his leave.

Thorin remained for some time, his piercing gaze seeing much more than the valley below. Instead, he found his mind straying to a fiery halo and wicked green eyes. The dwarf bowed his head and shuddered, swamped by bittersweet memory.

* * *

**And there it is! I meant to have more Thorin+Thilia in this chapter, but those blasted dwarves just wouldn't be quiet! So now everything's been pushed back, and alas, you'll have to wait for the next chapter.**

**R+ R; feedback is always welcome. Thanks again!**

**~H. Aegis**


End file.
